Marcian Colonna :: :: University of Virginia Library

Amongst the squalid crowd that lingered there,
Mocking with empty forms and hopeless prayer
Their bounteous God, was one of princely race—
The young Colonna,—in his form and face
Honoring the mighty stem from which he sprung.
Born amidst Roman ruins, he had hung
O'er every tale of sad antiquity,
And on its fallen honors, once so high,
Had mused like one who hoped. His soul had gone
Into the depth of ages, and had brought
From thence strange things and tidings, such as none
Or few e'er dream of now; and then he thought
That somewhat of the spirit old might be
Still living in the land—perhaps might haunt
The temples still; and often silently

He wandered thro' the night, and loved to hear
The winds come wailing by the tombs, and see
The thistle stagger and the ivy sere
Shake in the blast—she who triumphantly
Hangs her black tresses, like a rustling pall,
O'er grave and arch alike, and preys on all.

He was the youngest of his house, and from
His very boyhood a severer gloom
Than such as marks the child, gathered and grew
Around him, like an overshadowing veil;
And yet at times—(often) when some sad tale
Was told, from out that seeming darkness flew
Flashes of mind and passion, and his eye
Burned with the lightning of his brain, and then
He spoke more proudly; yet, by many men,
(Who some ancestral taint had not forgot,)
Marcian was shunned from very infancy,
And marked and chartered for the madman's lot.